


Emotional Quills

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Facebook Prompts [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hedgehog John, Hedgehogs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Realism, Military Backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 17:45:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11318469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: When John said 'Vatican Cameos', Sherlock didn't think he'd end up spending the evening with a hedgehog.





	Emotional Quills

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KesaKo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KesaKo/gifts).



> From a prompt (in end notes because spoilers, sweetie).
> 
> Also:  
> *Hedgehog facts are as true as anything else you can find on the interweb or by asking someone who actually has a hedgehog as a pet.  
> *Britain does maintain a Jungle Training course in Brunei, and the troops there have been deployed to Afghanistan in the past. I have no idea if they have need of medical staff or if they would accompany the infantry on missions – creative licence, shall we say?  
> *The Hedgehog’s dilemma is a real thing from proper psychologists.  
> This was lots of fun to write and research! <3

“John!” Sherlock’s voice was tinged with desperation. John had been faster, for once, able to run without crouching through the maze of the shipyards with their 6 foot clearances. This meant that when their quarry stepped out and shoved at the body chasing him, it was John who went toppling over the railing and into the river. The splash was too far away, Sherlock’s brain told him irrationally as he called for help, hands clenching his phone as it pressed cold against his ear. When he was sure help was coming, Sherlock bolted to the banks of the river, eyes roving desperately over the surface of the water. Long moments passed, and he began to despair. Should he follow John in? The current would take a prone body a long way…Sherlock’s mind started making calculations, taking refuge in logic while emotion threatened to take over. Abruptly it stopped as new data came in – _John_. The wave of relief left him weak when he saw a figure splashing awkwardly towards the bank, the angle oblique as the current pulled John downstream.

Finally, he made it to the shallows, stumbling onto the mud that lay exposed at this low tide. Sherlock grabbed at him, ignoring the frigid water as it sluiced off John’s shivering form. Sherlock’s coat may well be ruined, but he didn’t care. Just the sensation of the shivering comforted him – _John’s not dead_ – and he gladly pressed John into his own chest, feeling his chest expand as he breathed, coughing up river water, spitting the foul taste from his mouth.

“Sherlock…” John murmured through chattering teeth.

“I’m here John, you’re okay, you’re fine…” Sherlock babbled a little, the relief muddling his senses.

“No, Sherlock…” John insisted, pushing away and turning his face up to look intensely at his friend. “N-n-need to get to B-b-baker Street.”

Sherlock nodded placating until he looked, really looked into John’s face. His jaw was clenched, stopping his teeth chattering, but the expression on his face was clearly Captain Watson.

“V-v-v-vatican Cameos.” John whispered desperately. Sherlock recoiled in shock. Was it that serious?

“Now Sherlock. Imp-p-portant.” John’s whole body was shaking now, face pale, breathing irregular as his body struggled to deal with the lack of heat. Sherlock nodded once and they turned to go, making their way up to street level with difficulty. John’s coordination and balance were off, and he would have stumbled without Sherlock’s guidance. Sherlock was grateful for the stone steps up to the street – had there been a ladder, things would have been far more difficult.

No words were needed when they spotted the emergency vehicles; as one, they turned down a side street, then another, emerging on Vauxhall Bridge Road, where Sherlock hailed a cab. John was still shivering, his face pale and set, jaw still clenched. Sherlock kept one arm around his shoulder as they entered the cab, rubbing the wet upper arm with the rough wool of the Belstaff, hoping to add just a little warmth to John’s suffering body.

“Not long now, John.” Sherlock murmured encouragingly. John merely grunted in response. Sherlock berated himself over and over as the cab moved maddeningly slowly through the streets. If only he’d been faster, smarter, better, John wouldn’t be in this state. He would have been pushed instead of John, and John would be warm and safe…

As soon as they made it to Baker Street, Sherlock ushered John into the bathroom. Wet clothes stuck to his torso, a fact that would normally capture Sherlock’s attention; right now there were more important things to do, like getting John into a warm bath. John was hunched over in pain, his face contorted as he clutched at his stomach. Sherlock tried to keep one eye on him as he ran the water as hot as he dared, cursing the slow progress of the water up the side of the bath.

“Towels, Sherlock. And b-b-blankets.” John ground out, sending Sherlock jerking upwards at the sound of his strangled whisper.

“Yes! Yes, John.” Sherlock bolted into his own bedroom, grateful that Mrs. Hudson had finally laundered and returned the pile of towels that had collected on their bathroom floor. As he reached for the stack, Sherlock noticed his own shaking hand, a belatedly violent shiver wracking his own body. Damn it, he was freezing, too. He’d never be able to help John properly if he wasn’t warm himself. Hurriedly, Sherlock stripped off his wet clothes, socks and pants included, and dug out the warm trackpants and hoodie he used occasionally as a disguise. Satisfied he’d met the minimum requirements to keep his body from giving out before he’d made sure John was okay, Sherlock grabbed his phone and dashed back into the bathroom.

And froze.

John was gone.

His clothes, soaked and crumpled, lay in a pile exactly where John had been standing, but John was gone.

“John?” Sherlock called, blankly. He stuck his head out to scan the kitchen and sitting room – nothing. Looking back at the bathroom, Sherlock’s confusing was momentarily halted as he noticed the bath precariously close to overflowing. He swore and turned off the taps, leaving the water for the moment. Staring once more at John’s clothes, Sherlock blinked stupidly. As his brain considered and eliminated possibilities, Sherlock noticed that John’s shirt was…quivering. Quivering?

“John?” Sherlock called again, wondering if this was a practical joke. John had hardly been in a state for jokes when Sherlock had left, but the Army had given him an appreciation for practical jokes. Before his brain could go searching for potential joke substances that quivered, a soft snuffling sound came from the shirt. Sherlock hadn’t moved since he saw the shirt shifting, and now he stood transfixed as the thing, the _living_ thing inside John’s shirt slowly made its way out. A tiny pink nose emerged first, sniffing cautiously, before bright black eyes followed. When its eyes locked on Sherlock it froze. Sherlock couldn’t believe his eyes.

“A hedgehog.” He said, the words sounding ridiculous in the quiet air, and yet it was right in front of him. A tiny hedgehog, no bigger than the palm of his hand. A _blonde_ hedgehog, at that – dark eyes meant it wasn’t albino, but the nose was pink and spines white, so some kind of pigmentation deficiency, his brain supplied.

“Not sure that’s the relevant point here.” Sherlock spoke aloud to the part of his brain supplying information about pigmentation deficiencies. He’d barely whispered, and the strain had pushed his voice into a markedly higher register than usual. The hedgehog shuffled forward at the sound of his voice, snout sweeping around as it inched forward. The oddly strangled sound seemed to reassure it, as it waddled forward towards Sherlock, sniffing all the while. The little pink nose tickled along the side of his foot, licking and grunting as it explored. Finally it stopped, the snuffling sounds waning as it sat close to Sherlock’s foot, occasionally sniffing and licking again as though to reassure itself that this was, in fact what it had been looking for.

Sherlock stared. What on earth was he to do with a miniature hedgehog? And where the hell was John? As he stared, his brain whirring without purpose, it occurred to Sherlock that the colour he could see – the back of the hedgehog – was the exact colour of John’s hair. The blonde with threads of darker colour was familiar and comforting. A fanciful thought struck Sherlock. John was gone. This hedgehog was here. The back of this hedgehog was the exact colour of the back of John’s head (Sherlock had made an exhaustive study in a full range of light conditions).

Was this hedgehog _John?_

Sherlock blinked. Tentatively, he reached down towards it then paused. _How the hell do you pick up a hedgehog?_ He thought to himself. Frowning as he reached for his phone, a quick Google gave Sherlock some basics about handling hedgehogs. According to a forum post by Emma &Daisy, _“_ _I find that scooping her up from the side, and sliding two fingers under her belly ensures she does not curl into a ball and puff out her spikes.”_ Slightly more confident, he scooped up the hedgehog, sliding his fingers across its belly, half expecting it to curl in on itself in fear at the action. It remained relaxed however, before rolling onto its side, encouraging Sherlock to rub its belly. When he obliged, the little creature seemed to sigh with pleasure and lean into the touch. Sherlock continued for a moment before lowering his hand to cup it – him? John? – in both palms. Grudgingly, it rolled back onto its feet, sniffing along the heels of Sherlock’s hands and tilting its head up to peer at Sherlock’s face. Mindful now of its poor eyesight, Sherlock brought the hedgehog closer to his face. He was aware of how odd this looked – a grown man in trackies, standing in his bathroom having a silent staring contest with a tiny blonde hedgehog.

“John?” Sherlock whispered tentatively, and the hedgehog licked his nose, the whiskers tickling as they skittered over his skin. There was no way to know if this was confirmation or a coincidence.

“Right…” Sherlock said to himself. He had a lot of questions, none of which could be answered by the hedgehog, unless Sherlock got creative. Just in case, he spoke to the hedgehog, forcing his voice up so John’s superior high frequency hearing could better pick it up. “Let’s try something, John,” he said, moving into the sitting room. Instinctively, he brought the small animal close to his body, cradling it with one arm as he searched for – and finally found – the thing he’d decided would help him communicate, if this was John.

The ouiji board.

“I know smell is your most acute sense,” Sherlock told the hedgehog, “so I’m putting one of my scarves on the ‘YES’ and this glove I stole from Mycroft on the ‘NO’.” He carefully placed the small animal on the ouiji board, watching as it waddled its way around the space, orienting itself to the YES and NO, as well as Sherlock himself. After a moment it turned to face Sherlock and became still, as though waiting.

Sherlock gulped.

“John?” he asked, unable to elaborate. The hedgehog considered a moment before turning to Sherlock’s scarf. _YES._

“Okay.” Sherlock answered. The hedge – _John_ – waited patiently.

“Has this happened before?” Sherlock asked. _YES_.

“How did it…” Sherlock started, then realised extensive explanation was not possible right now. He thought for a moment.

“Will you change back?” _YES_.

“Will you change back in…” he thought, “less than a week?” _YES_.

“Less than a day?” _YES_.

Sherlock exhaled a breath he had not realised he was holding.

“Is there anything I can do to speed things along?” _YES_.

Sherlock was going to ask what, but that would have been pointless again.  He watched as John sniffled around the board, butting against the scarf and glove until he realised John wanted to move them. Sherlock grabbed them away, and the grunting noises sounded oddly satisfied. Slowly, John wandered across the board, stopping and licking at four places on the board. A message to Sherlock.

_H-E-A-T._

“Heat.” Sherlock repeated, and it was strangely not strange at all when John moved immediately towards _YES_.

“You need to be warmer.” Sherlock repeated, before his brain finally kicked into gear.

“Stay here, okay?” He told John, scooping him up and carefully placing him in the deerstalker, which he then placed on John’s chair. Like a whirlwind, Sherlock made a fire, fussing until it was blazing as fiercely as he dared in their tiny fireplace. Next he collected all the blankets he could find, and finally shifted his chair so it was at an angle to the fireplace.

“Warm fluids.” Sherlock thought. What did hedgehogs drink? An image of a hedgehog lapping at a saucer of milk came to mind. He heated some milk on the stove, pouring it carefully into a saucer and laying it next to John. Interested, he sniffled over before recoiling at the first scent of the warm milk. A hedgehog turning its back firmly is not a common occurrence, yet there was no other description that fit so well.

“Okay, not milk then.” Sherlock muttered. He thought hedgehogs liked milk. Isn’t that why they appeared as such in popular culture? Really, though, John had such a high surface-area-to-volume ratio, it wouldn’t take long to increase his body temperature. With a flash of inspiration – _body heat!_ – Sherlock whipped off his hoodie and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. He picked up John and cradled him close. Immediately, Sherlock regretted the decision. The spines weren’t stabbing him, per se, but they irritated his skin, like the rough side of Velcro sliding against his arm. How frustrating, Sherlock thought – my body heat will be negated by the necessary separation between our respective skins. With some manoeuvring, Sherlock was able to give John a warm space in which to nestle, his little pink nose tucked against the warmth of Sherlock’s inner elbow. Tentatively, Sherlock tried patting John. Sherlock’s large hand almost swamped John, and he slid it carefully from the top of John’s head back over his tail. It was awkward, and the little noises coming from the small creature seemed more irritated than anything. Sherlock hesitated, then scratched gently at the space behind John’s ears. If the earlier grunting had indicated satisfaction, this noise was surely far beyond satisfaction – blissful contentment would be closer. The little shivers of pleasure were unmistakable, as was the grumble when he hesitated, as though he was considering stopping. He experimented a little, scratching along the sides of John’s face, fascinated at the little noises he was able to elicit from John. Finally, Sherlock settled into a rhythm, scratching once more behind John’s ears, the repetitive motion soothing his guilty nerves.

Heat. If heat was what would help John change back to his own form, it must have been the cold that triggered this change. The cold that came from his unexpected dive into the freezing waters of the river. A dive that Sherlock should have been able to avoid. And yet now here they were, Sherlock petting John, stroking his quills as they soaked up the heat from the fire.

“It’s an odd coincidence,” Sherlock murmured, speaking as though John was actually there; of course he was, but it was different when Sherlock couldn’t see his face. Easier, really. “Odd that of all animals, it’s a hedgehog. The hedgehog dilemma has been on my mind for a long while, and this might be the definition of irony.” He looked down at the familiar shades, though an unfamiliar presentation – quills instead of military-short hair. “The hedgehog dilemma is what we just faced, in a physical sense – two creatures that desire closeness, but must maintain a certain distance due to circumstances out of their control, lest they hurt each other.” He continued petting John, noticing the dark eyes closed in sleep or contentment, he couldn’t tell. “I think that’s us, anyway, John; I sense that sometimes you refrain from saying something, and I know I do the same. There are things in both our past that we believe are insurmountable, that make the distance between us a feel like a necessity.” Sherlock sat in silence for a long while now, the popping of the fire the only sound now, in the almost darkness. The gentle stroking of John’s quills was lovely, he decided. Contemplatively, he added, “I’m not so sure. Perhaps, despite our emotional quills, we could find a way to be closer than we think we should be.” That melancholy thought was the last Sherlock remembered before warmth and exhaustion carried him off into dreamland.

 +++

There was something heavy weighing on him, Sherlock registered vaguely. Something large and heavy, and his neck was at a funny angle. Groaning softly, he tried to stretch, shifting his hands along the smooth skin on which they lay…Sherlock froze. What the…? He opened his eyes without moving his body again, surveying the scene, the previous evening coming back to him. _John changed into a hedgehog. We fell asleep on the chair. When he was a hedgehog._ Sherlock checked. _Visual confirmation. John is no longer a hedgehog._ Assimilating this new information took a few moments in which Sherlock’s hands continued to roam across John’s back. John’s very human, very naked back. If the puddle of clothes in the bathroom was an indication, it was only John’s body that transformed, and since the hedgehog was not wearing clothes, it followed that John would not be wearing clothes.

So to summarise: a naked John, wrapped in blankets, was sleeping cuddled up to Sherlock, who in turn was clad only in tracksuit bottoms and a blanket of his own, slung around his shoulders. Okay, then, Sherlock thought to himself. Probably the weirdest scenario they’d encountered. The nudity was as much a part of that as the whole hedgehog thing, he admitted to himself. Before Sherlock had had time to properly consider the best line of attack/defence/retreat, John woke. He seemed to follow the same waking phases as Sherlock, and the moment that he remembered the previous day was evident from the sudden stillness, the rigidity of his muscles.

“Good morning, John.” Sherlock said quietly.

“Good morning, Sherlock.” John replied. He wasn’t facing Sherlock; somehow he had ended up sitting sideways on Sherlock’s thighs, face buried under Sherlock’s chin, pressing against his sternum. Sherlock did not move; he wondered how John wanted to do this. Would they ignore the whole hedgehog thing, with a tacit understanding that John was to be kept warm at all costs? And what about this moment, when a very naked John and a very almost naked Sherlock were sitting together in a very small chair?

“So that’s a thing that happens sometimes.” John surprised Sherlock by addressing the proverbial elephant straight away, though he didn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“Right.” Sherlock replied awkwardly.

John cleared his throat but didn’t speak.

“Er, would you, I mean…” Sherlock started, cursing his ineptitude. He felt himself flush and was pleased John couldn’t see.

“So, um…” John said weakly, obviously wanting to fill the silence.

Sherlock had no idea what to say. Finally he opened his mouth and blurted, “Your hair’s the same colour as your quills.”

John’s hand shot up to his head, running through his hair self-consciously. “Is it?” he asked.

Sherlock imagined he felt John’s tense body relax a little. He cast about for the right thing to say. “I hope Mycroft’s glove didn’t smell too terrible.”

John said nothing. Sherlock berated himself – that was obviously A Bit Not Good if John couldn’t answer him. When John’s shoulders started shaking, he was alarmed. “John?” A giggle escaped, and Sherlock relaxed, realising John was laughing – giggling, to be precise. “I’m just glad you asked questions I could answer ‘yes’ to.” he said.

Sherlock grinned over the top of John’s head. The tension about this unusual day had almost disappeared.

“Does it happen often?” Sherlock asked, as much for something to say as to satisfy his curiosity. He felt John shrug and instinctively tightened his arms. Rather than stiffen and pull away, John relaxed into him, allowing himself to be pulled closer.

“Depends. It’s the cold. Hedgehogs have a slightly cooler body temperature, and if mine drops below 35 degrees, well…” John explained. He went on without prompting, explaining how his family was from a tiny Channel island called Alderney, where blonde hedgehogs were common. “Nobody knows when it started, it’s just always _been_ ,” John said, with such acceptance that Sherlock was amazed. “All the males in my family experience it. Once I’ve warmed up it’s only a couple of hours before I change back. I had an uncle once who went for a walk before a thunderstorm. He wasn’t found for a few days and by then, it was permanent, even when they heated him up he didn’t change back.” John’s voice was sombre at the memory.

“And that’s why Afghanistan.” Sherlock said, though his usual arrogance at stating facts about people was missing. Instead there was a questioning tone.

John nodded. “It was meant to be Brunei. A warm stable climate, overseeing the medical team with the Jungle Warfare course.” He laughed, a bitter edge tainting the sound. “As soon as I arrived, we were deployed to Afghanistan. Luckily it was the middle of May, so I didn’t have too much to worry about. And then…” He trailed off, and Sherlock knew ‘ _I got shot’_ was too hard to say.

“And the milk?” Sherlock asked, deliberately changing the subject.

“Adult mammals are lactose intolerant, Sherlock. Humans who aren’t are the exception, not the rule.”

Sherlock did not reply to this – mammalian biology was not an area in which he was an expert; not compared to John, who, it seemed, had first-hand experience of two species of mammal. The last thought he’d had last night resurfaced; the hedgehog dilemma. Were he and John still emotionally stuck, too far apart despite wanting to be closer? Could they negotiate the apparently insurmountable? Sherlock knew that his own issues lay in his emotional inexperience and the vulnerability he covered with distain and a sharp tongue. Could he screw his courage to the sticking place and allow John to see him, really see who he was? And in turn, could John, who had been keeping this secret, trust Sherlock? Sherlock understood how such a unique characteristic would make someone wary of forming close bonds; perhaps having someone inside the walls would make it easier to cope with what must be a lonely and difficult existence, sometimes.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was tentative.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Did I do it right?”

“What?”

“I wanted to help. Did I do it right?” Sherlock asked, knowing he sounded like a small boy but needing to know.

John buried his face into Sherlock’s chest again. “You smelled good. And you talked to me, and petted me. I really like being petted, you know.”

Sherlock smiled at the admission, a warm glow flowing though his body. “It was comforting.”

“Yeah.” John sighed.

“And this?” Sherlock asked before he could talk himself out of it.

“This?” John repeated.

“This. Human John.” Sherlock expanded. “How is…this?”

John considered, and Sherlock knew all too well that in his current position, he would notice the increased thudding on Sherlock’s heart as he waited for John’s reply.

“This is good.” John answered. He tilted his head up now, finally looking at Sherlock. Blue human eyes met green, human fingers touching human jaw. Sherlock sighed as he exhaled through his nose, John’s human lips meeting his own. John was right – it was good.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt: "I somehow need a fic where John dramatically turns into a hedgehog (like a werewolf AU but with tiny hedgehog) who loves to be petted and Sherlock somewhat feels guilty and glad to do it and when he turns back awkward conversation ensues.  
> This MUST exist"
> 
> Thanks to so many people...  
> [KesaKo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KesaKo) \- your prompt kicked this off - thank you for helping me expand my horizons!  
> [KaraRenee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KaraRenee/pseuds/KaraRenee) \- beta and hedgehog expert.  
> Everyone in Facebook land for encouraging me to make this happen.


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